


all along the watchtower

by vicari_us



Series: nights on the broken tiles [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, Flexibility, M/M, Masturbating in Front of a Partner, Semi-public masturbation, Sexual Frustration, Voyeurism, descriptions of hypermobility, inappropriate thoughts about KT tape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:48:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25504714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vicari_us/pseuds/vicari_us
Summary: “When ya do the whole bendy thing, does it hurt? Sure looks like it does.”“I don’t think my body is any of your business, Miya,” Kiyoomi snapped.It could be, if you wanted it to be.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: nights on the broken tiles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034853
Comments: 30
Kudos: 537
Collections: Team MSBY Black Jackal Haikyuu, stories that touched me





	all along the watchtower

**Author's Note:**

> [Hypermobility (n.) - an increase in the range of movement of which a body part, especially a joint, is capable. If you’re cool with Sakusa’s bendiness in canon/gymnasts, you shouldn’t be too squeamish for this!]

Atsumu commonly found his eyes drawn to Kiyoomi over the course of the day. Sometimes it would be for the sake of the game, monitoring his position when debating on whether to set to him again this time. Occasionally it would be to make some snarky comment or another or to retaliate to one aimed at him, and rarely it would be for an attempt at casual conversation that was usually denied. Mostly, it was because he just liked to watch.

Kiyoomi was feared within the sport for the devilish spin his flexible wrists put on his spikes. He could use them to send the ball flying towards an opponent with disgusting accuracy, then watch with subtle smugness as it would ricochet off of their forearms and fly out of the bounds of the court. Atsumu despised being on the receiving end of that spike, and only Komori could tame it with any kind of consistency. Yaku was a close second, but Yaku was a demon in his own right too.

At first, Atsumu was horrified to see Kiyoomi calmly start his stretches before a match. He would take his thumb and fingers in one hand, then push them down to his forearms until a loud crack sounded at the unnatural position. Repeat on the other hand, and Atsumu would wince at the sound every time. There was just something primal within him screaming that someone’s joints _should not move like that._

Quickly, that horror morphed into a kind of morbid fascination. He caught himself staring during a practice when Kiyoomi twisted his neck around like a goddamn owl, sighing quietly at the relief the motion gave him. Atsumu was standing on one leg at the time and almost lost his balance.

Things only got worse when Iwaizumi got involved.

Their new athletic trainer insisted on learning and critiquing each of his players’ routines, including the extra steps Kiyoomi added to his own. The man was obviously fascinated by it, to the point of bringing a book on hypermobility to practice one day to test out some stretches he’d discovered. Atsumu watched as Kiyoomi easily dropped into the splits on the synthetic rubber tiles, Iwaizumi observing with an impressed look on his face as Kiyoomi rotated his torso to grip his toes and flex the muscles of his back. He switched positions so that he was on his knees, holding one foot behind him and bringing it up so that his heel almost touched his collarbone. By the time he moved to repeat the same with his other leg, Atsumu had to physically tear his gaze away to focus on his own stretches.

Each day, Iwaizumi would spend an extra few minutes with Kiyoomi to push the boundaries of his flexibility. He would push and pull at Kiyoomi’s limbs, folding him into obscene shapes and positions that Atsumu was convinced shouldn’t be allowed. Together, they created a training regimen that would both strengthen the tendons and ligaments holding Kiyoomi’s joints together, and improve his already unholy level of flexibility. It would ‘improve his performance’, Iwaizumi claimed. Maybe so, but it would also drive Atsumu insane.

Some days, it was a glimpse of strips of multicoloured fabric peeking out from underneath Kiyoomi’s uniform that caught his eye. All athletes were familiar with the use of KT tape, so it wasn’t an unusual sight. However, under Iwaizumi’s tutelage, Kiyoomi had mastered the placement of it. Each length of tape both supported his loose joints and inadvertently accentuated every smooth motion of muscle as he jumped, stretched, dived, and spiked with that nasty technique of his. Atsumu had noticed he didn’t seem to be too fond of the tape, absentmindedly picking at the edges of it glued to his sensitive skin, a small look of frustration creasing his brow.

He went to make a joke about the prickly sea urchin becoming a zebra on one occasion in the locker room, but found the words dead in his throat as his eyes followed the two parallel lines of black tape down between Kiyoomi’s broad shoulders, tapering neatly into the two dips in the small of his back. He must have finally been caught staring, because the embers of Kiyoomi’s charcoal gaze were trained on Atsumu’s face by the time he convinced himself to look away. He felt paralysed, all of his normal sharp-tongued retorts lost in the seconds that stretched between them. Kiyoomi raised an eyebrow and huffed a small breath through his nose, yanking his jersey over his head. Atsumu continued to stare as he kneaded the hem of the fabric between his bony fingers, finally breaking eye contact to turn and stride out onto the court. The door swung shut to the sound of a fist meeting the metal of Atsumu’s locker.

There’s a fine line between fascination and obsession, Atsumu concluded one day. Iwaizumi could comfortably be described as the former, while Atsumu found himself drifting further into the latter over time. He was proud of his own flexibility and how he utilised it on the court, straining the muscles in his thighs to support him as he’d squat down to set a wayward ball accurately from any angle. This unpredictability of his play style both awed and intimidated any team who dared face him, but it was the result of almost two decades of honing and training his body to react to the elaborate series of motions he imagined in his head. Kiyoomi, on the other hand, seemed to move so fluidly that unless you looked closely, you wouldn’t notice just how impressively _wrong_ it was. Atsumu was one who did look closely, despite his brain telling him to _look away, look away_ \- and at some point, _wrong_ became _right._

When that happened, he wasn’t quite sure. He just knew that eventually he found himself taking an extra cold shower after every match and practice, trying and failing to scrub and rinse away the unwelcome thoughts of Kiyoomi’s supple body down the rusted drain. By the time he’d finally step out of the bathroom with his hair dripping ice-cold down the back of his neck, the rest of the team would have already left, leaving him with nothing but a damp towel and revolting disappointment clawing at his insides.

Sleeping was an ordeal for a few weeks. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind would recall images of Kiyoomi sitting on the gym floor, back bent into an arc as he stretched out his arms, pushing the backs of his hands flat against the ground. He would see him reaching forward to grip his ankles and push his forehead against his knees, smoothly transitioning into an extreme backbend on the edge of their huddle during a time-out. Rainbows of fabric tape would dance across his eyelids, teasing him into considering the lean musculature underneath. He would punch at his pillow and kick at his sheets, but the only way to forget was to slip his hand beneath his waistband and remember.

By the time two weeks passed them by, Hinata was the first to notice that something was wrong.

“Atsumu-san, why do you have that look on your face?” he asked, childlike bluntness ever-present even all those years later.

“What look? I don’t have a ‘look’.”

Hinata parted his wavy hair to the side in an attempt to mimic Atsumu’s own, pushing his eyebrows together and his lips down into a frown. “Shoyou-kun, I know exactly what yer talkin’ about, but I don’t wanna admit it.”

Atsumu flinched at the irritatingly flawless imitation of his accent, but plastered a fake smile on his face. He reached forward and squeezed Hinata’s shoulder in a way that he hoped read as reassuring, rather than the thinly veiled threat it really was. “I appreciate the concern and all, but really, there’s nothin’ wrong. Ya look more like poor Tobio-kun, pullin’ a miserable face like that.”

While Hinata tried his best to defend Kageyama’s honour, Atsumu once again found himself enraptured as Kiyoomi took centre stage behind him. He watched intently as he jogged forward to drop into an animalistic crouch, shooting up to slam a perfect toss from Kageyama right into the sideline.

“Wow, Omi-san really is amazing!” Hinata commented, eyes practically sparkling with awe.

Atsumu thought for a moment. Kiyoomi showed his appreciation to Kageyama with a stiff nod, who returned it politely. He was rubbing the tape strapping up his wrist with one hand, only to halt when he caught Atsumu’s gaze. He dropped it like a hot coal, instead choosing to clench his fists and dip under the net to retrieve his ball, turning his back to his observers. “He’s definitely some kinda monster, that’s for sure.”

For once, Atsumu wasn’t alone when he returned to the locker room, towel slung over his shoulders to catch the rivulets of water coming from his hair. Kiyoomi stood in front of his locker, fiddling with the loops of the mask he was fitting to his face. He looked up when Atsumu walked in, expression the picture of neutrality. Atsumu raised a hand in a cheery wave, not at all surprised by the eye-roll he received in lieu of a proper response. “You’re here late, Omi-kun.”

“Unfortunately,” came the muttered reply.

Atsumu walked over to open his locker on the opposite side of the room, ruffling his damp hair with his towel. “Any particular reason, or did ya just feel like lookin’ at my handsome face a little longer?”

Kiyoomi scoffed his interruption. “Don’t insult me.”

Atsumu continued as if he hadn't spoken. “I mean, I wouldn’t blame ya if ya did.”

He heard the rustling of Kiyoomi’s windbreaker behind him as he moved. “You might be someone who likes to stare, but don’t project onto me, Miya.”

Atsumu fumbled the can of deodorant in his hands, feeling his palms burn red. Cursing under his breath, he shoved it back into his bag. “I wouldn’t call it ‘staring’. Sounds rude, dontcha think?”

He could feel Kiyoomi’s presence hovering behind him while he finished packing his belongings into his bag. It was as if he was waiting for something. Sighing, Atsumu turned to look at him with raised eyebrows. “Cat got yer tongue, Omi-Omi?”

Kiyoomi’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets, what could be seen of his face above his mask twisted into an expression of pure dismay. Atsumu could make out the outline of his fists clenching and unclenching behind the layer of thin polyester. The continued silence was normal for interactions with Kiyoomi, yet for reasons unknown to him, Atsumu felt himself growing increasingly irritated by it. He rolled his eyes and zipped his bag shut, swinging it over his shoulder to leave.

“Why do you keep watching me?”

_Because the way your body moves is just inhuman. It’s impossible, disgusting, ugly, beautiful._

Atsumu stared at the brushed steel of the door handle in his palm. He tipped his head to the side and hummed in thought. “I guess it’s just ‘cause I’m curious.”

“About what?”

_Whether you’d like it if I fucked you with your ankles behind your neck, whether you could suck your own cock and let me watch._

“When ya do the whole bendy thing, does it hurt? Sure looks like it does.”

“I don’t think my body is any of your business, Miya.” Kiyoomi snapped.

_It could be, if you wanted it to be._

“S’pose not,” Atsumu huffed out a bitter laugh and opened the door. “G’night, Omi-kun.”

That night, Atsumu lay in bed, eyes wide open. He tapped his restless fingertips on his belly, trying to fight the urge to push them lower, push them down. Filthy thoughts of Kiyoomi twisted and pliant beneath Atsumu’s hands plagued his mind. He thought of bending him over, bending him backwards, bending him open. Pulling his head back by those stupid black curls, making sure he was watching as Atsumu stroked his cock to the sight. He imagined pinning Kiyoomi against the bedroom wall in front of him, lifting one leg up and flat against it, feeling the strain of Kiyoomi’s hamstring push against his hip as he buried himself deep inside him. How would it feel to have those talented hands wrapped around him? Could he ever get tired of the novelty of the motions of those flexible wrists?

Bittersweet release found him twisting his sheets between his fingers with a frustrated shout, visions of his teeth sinking into an ivory shoulder instead of his pillow.

Over the next few days, Atsumu paid extra attention to righting himself whenever he noticed his wandering eyes. He dove into serving practice when Kiyoomi linked his fingers behind his back and pushed beyond acceptable limits, rolled over to chat to Bokuto during cooldown when Iwaizumi approached with yet another of his goddamn stretch ideas. Sweat seeped from each and every one of his pores after an intense game of three-on-three, hands on his knees as his chest heaved with the effort. Komori clapped him between the shoulder blades, congratulating him on a game well played. For once, even winning left him searching for something more.

By the end of the week, he’d started to get used to it. He created a routine for himself where he would focus on nothing but the game during the day, then allow himself to indulge his fantasies at night. He knew it was wrong, but he was past the point of caring. In his mind, what was wrong was now right, after all.

The observer becoming the observed was a strange sensation. It started as a faint prickle at the back of his neck, forcing Atsumu to whip his head around to find Kiyoomi staring back at him from the bench. He calmly took a sip from his water bottle, not breaking eye contact until Hinata plopped himself down next to him, making him shuffle a few inches to the left with a grimace. Atsumu would periodically feel those eyes trained on him over the course of the day, burning hot against his skin. He didn’t know yet whether he enjoyed the feeling or not. What he did know, however, was that he loved a challenge.

He started to make a point of showing off even more than usual whenever he caught Kiyoomi looking. Lifting his jersey to wipe barely-there sweat from his brow, stretching and shaking out his muscular arms, attempting riskier and riskier sets to Hoshiumi and Bokuto, confident in his ability to enable their success.

_Did Omi notice? Could he tell? Did he care?_

He found his answer after yet another arctic blast from the gym shower. Kiyoomi sat alone on one of the benches with his chin resting in his palm. Atsumu knew for sure that this time, he was waiting for him. He whistled an upbeat tune as he approached, pretending not to notice the pair of eyes following him in silence. “Late again, Omi-kun?”

“You’ve stopped staring,” came the reply.

Atsumu dropped down on the wooden bench a few feet from his teammate. He leaned back on his hands and met Kiyoomi’s gaze for the umpteenth time that day, finally on purpose. “That I have. Ain’t that whatcha wanted?”

Kiyoomi _tsk_ ed his annoyance. “Yes, but why?”

_You wouldn’t want to know. You wouldn’t want to hear how I feel about your body, how I feel about you - would you?_

“You’re the one who told me that yer body’s none of my business,” Atsumu said instead. “Even I can respect boundaries sometimes, y’know.”

_Only during the light of day. At night, I make myself a fucking liar._

“You, listening to me? What a joke,” Kiyoomi spat. His hair bounced as he shook his head in disbelief. It was mesmerising. “Why is it really? Do you pity me? Are you jealous?”

Atsumu started at the sudden interrogation. “Wha- Pity? Where the fuck did that come from?” Kiyoomi fumed to himself silently, leaving Atsumu to fill the gap. “Of course I don’t pity ya, that’s ridiculous. Jealous, maybe a little. Who wouldn’t wanna spike like you?”

Kiyoomi narrowed his eyes. Atsumu felt his skin prickle under that intelligent scrutiny. “It’s not just jealousy though, is it? Tell me.”

“Jeez, Omi, it’s almost like ya actually want me to keep lookin’ at ya or somethin’,” Atsumu teased.

“Stop it. _Tell me._ ”

“Ya might regret askin’ for that,” he warned.

Kiyoomi picked at the skin around his nails in his lap as he spoke, only hesitating to think for a few moments. “I don’t care. It’s annoying, but I want to know the answer.”

Atsumu took a deep breath, considering. How much of the truth should he, could he, share? How much would his runaway mouth give away, how much would he be able to omit?

He settled on, “I like to watch ya sometimes. When we’re playin’, I kinda have to, y’know? But then I saw some of the exercises ya do with Iwa-kun, and it got me thinkin’ about how weird yer body is. It’s just so fucked up to watch someone twist themselves into a goddamn pretzel like it’s nothin’ - it’s one of those things where ya just can’t look away even though it makes ya feel sick.

“Some point along the way, I stopped findin’ it weird, I guess. Realised it’s just the way you are. Then I started watchin’ to see what else ya could do with yer body, got curious. Saw the tape all over ya and wondered if it hurt to have a body like yours-”

“It doesn’t,” Kiyoomi interrupted, still staring down at his lap. His long fingers were tangled together in a knot. "Not anymore."

“Huh,” Atsumu mused. He smirked and commented, “Thought that ain’t any of my business?”

A scowl appeared on Kiyoomi’s face. Atsumu watched as the skin of his forehead stretched and folded, the pair of moles marking it pulling down in tandem with the motion. “It isn’t. I just don’t want you feeling sorry for me by thinking I’m in pain.”

“Well, I don’t. If anythin’, bein’ able to pull off some of the stunts ya do if ya really were in pain would be pretty impressive,” Atsumu said. “So to answer yer question, I just like lookin’ at ya.”

An oddly comfortable silence fell over them for a moment. Atsumu took his towel from around his neck and threw it onto his head to scrub at his hair - he could feel but not see Kiyoomi’s eyes on him, once again. He was caught by surprise when the silence was broken by a, “That’s it?”

Atsumu licked his bottom lip with his silver tongue. “Mm. Yeah, that’s it. Why d’ya ask?”

The well-worn crease between Kiyoomi’s brows deepened further. “You’ve been doing things to make me look at you.”

Atsumu allowed the towel to drop onto the bench with a quiet thump. “Omi-kun, it’s not like you to have an ego. Who’s sayin’ it’s about you?”

“Who else have you been staring at like a piece of meat for weeks?” he snapped. “Don’t bother trying to lie your way out of this, Miya.”

“Hey, I’m not lyin’,” Atsumu replied, hand on his heart. “But it’s interestin’ that ya say I was doin’ it to get yer attention, when we both know it was ‘cause ya were already lookin’.”

To that, Kiyoomi finally took his hands from his lap and placed them to either side of himself. Atsumu couldn’t help but notice the ever so slightly odd angle his wrists rested at as he put his weight on his hands. It was distracting, to say the least.

“And if I was?” Kiyoomi asked, tone giving nothing away.

Atsumu mirrored his posture. Their hands were only a few inches apart, but even that felt too far. He didn’t dare move closer. “Then I’d say that ya seem to like watchin’ me too.”

“I… don’t hate it,” Kiyoomi muttered. He sounded as annoyed by the fact as he looked.

“I’m flattered, Omi-kun.”

“Shut up,” there was that frown again, “You said you were curious about what I could do with my body. What exactly did you mean?”

“Mm, well I originally meant in the game,” Atsumu admitted. “But somewhere along the way I started thinkin’ some other things,” Kiyoomi stared at him, the creases on his forehead smoothing into a blank, unreadable slate. Atsumu took his silence as a cue to continue, swallowing down a bundle of nerves, “Started thinkin’ about what ya’d look like if I could touch ya, thinkin’ about how far I could push ya into those ridiculous shapes.”

Kiyoomi continued to stare silently, but Atsumu watched his fingers curl up into his palms, fingernails scratching against hardwood. He watched as his broad chest rose and fell faster than it had any reason to, watched his left foot tap a staccato rhythm on the floor. “Thought about how it’d feel for ya to touch me too. How it’d feel to have ya watch me touch myself, thinkin’ about you.”

The audible hitch of Kiyoomi’s breath in his throat bolstered Atsumu’s confidence, and he swung his leg over the bench to straddle it. A lopsided grin spread across his face as he raked his eyes down Kiyoomi’s body in front of him. “Ya said ya don’t hate watchin’ me, Omi-kun. But I think ya were just bein’ shy.”

“You’re disgusting,” Kiyoomi hissed, gritting his teeth.

“Right back atcha. Yet, here we are,” Atsumu replied, pointedly looking at the growing tent in his teammate’s shorts that matched his own. Neither moved to cover themselves. “Maybe ya don’t just like to watch. With all those questions ya like to ask, maybe ya like to listen too.”

Kiyoomi’s eyes followed Atsumu’s hand as he ran it up one of his thighs, feeling the dark fabric bunch underneath his fingertips. He dragged them along his waistband with practiced grace, unable to take his eyes away from Kiyoomi’s face. A thumb slipped beneath the elastic, palm and fingers spread across the prominent bulge beneath. The slight pressure coupled with the thrill of being observed, being _watched_ , sent a shiver up Atsumu’s spine. He hesitated, waiting for some sort of signal to tell him that he’d gone too far; it was all a joke, you fucking moron, what are you _doing_ -

None came. Kiyoomi suddenly turned to straddle the bench opposite him, still with his precious bubble of personal space intact. His expression was almost pained, folding his arms across his chest. Still, he challenged Atsumu in that awful, gorgeous voice of his, “Cat got your tongue, Miya?”

The curl of fluttering heat gathering in his groin tightened and evolved. He finally pushed his palm down on it with a groan. “Fuck, Omi.”

“Is that what you’ve been thinking about while you look at me?” he asked, his tone of voice so matter-of-fact that it physically hurt Atsumu to hear it. His face burned, caught in the act. “Fucking me, being fucked by me. Which is it?”

“Both,” Atsumu breathed, licking his palm before sliding his hand beneath his shorts. A stray drop of water trickled past his temple, freezing cold against his heated skin. He hissed a curse as he dragged the stripe of saliva up the base of his cock, holding it loosely around the head with a shudder. “I swear, I’ve imagined fuckin’ everythin’ by now.”

Kiyoomi hummed as Atsumu fisted himself behind his protective layer of cloth. “And how did that make you feel?”

“What are ya now, my fuckin’ therapist?” Atsumu managed to let out a throaty chuckle before cutting himself off with a gasp. “Ah, _fuck_ \- I dunno, makes me feel wrong, feel dirty, thinkin’ about ya like that. But that’s what makes it so hot, makes it feel so good,” His eyes slid shut on the next slick tug he gave his cock. He didn’t need to see Kiyoomi to know that he was still watching, “Thinkin’ about the crazy positions ya could get yerself into if ya tried, gettin’ fucked by or fuckin’ me from any angle. Drives me wild.”

The sound of Atsumu’s fist rubbing against skin and fabric harmonised with the curses, grunts, and moans that fell from his mouth, echoing off the walls of the locker room. His one-man audience was breathing heavily too, and Atsumu briefly wondered what would happen if someone were to walk in and find them like this. The thought alone made him twitch and strain in his hand. One particularly vigorous stroke of his length had the elastic of his waistband snapping painfully against his abdomen, so he moved to free himself. He opened his eyes and waited for a moment, Kiyoomi’s own flicking up to meet them as he raised his eyebrows expectantly. Atsumu didn’t need telling twice, so yanked his shorts and underwear down past his asscheeks to stretch around the tops of his thighs, erection flushed and glistening with his spit and leaking pre-cum. It throbbed as Kiyoomi stared at it, the deep obsidian of his eyes branding him like a hot poker. Atsumu noticed that the bulge in his shorts had grown significantly, and he felt pride bubbling within him from the knowledge of who, and what, was responsible for it.

“Can I touch you?” Atsumu choked out.

“No,” was the firm reply, “It’s my turn to watch.”

Kiyoomi told Atsumu to touch himself again, so he did, gladly. He gripped just under his tip with his thumb and forefinger, sliding them up and down to a fast rhythm, balls slapping back against his skin with every tug. “ _Hnng_ , God - Omi, yer killin’ me. I didn’t - _hah_ \- know how much I’d love havin’ ya look at me like this.”

“What are you thinking about right now?”

“Mm, I’m imaginin’ it’s you jerkin’ me off instead,” he panted, licking his parted lips. Tension began to build low and dark in his belly. “I just know it’d feel so good to have ya touchin’ me there. The way ya move yer wrists - _oh, fuck_ \- it’s just somethin’ else.”

Friction was building between his palm and the sensitive skin of his erection, so he spat into it to relieve it. Kiyoomi cringed in his periphery, but he was too far gone to care. His breath was hot and ragged as it left his lips in desperate gasps of air, his thighs beginning to shake and quiver as he got closer and closer to the edge. “Omi - I’m, I’m gonna -”

Kiyoomi leaned forward just a fraction. His pink tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, and Atsumu let out a whine he didn’t know he was even capable of to the quiet request to, “Do it, Atsumu.”

Atsumu barely had the presence of mind to remember to cup himself with his left hand as he shuddered and came with a long, low moan of Kiyoomi’s name. Bliss washed over him as he fell apart at the seams, spilling over into his hand under his teammate’s enraptured gaze. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and his entire body felt like it was buzzing with electricity as he tried his hardest to manage the waves of aftershocks running beneath his skin. With a deep, shaky breath in, he leaned over the side of the bench to wipe the stickiness from his hand on his abandoned towel before dropping it again. He looked up to see Kiyoomi moving to stand and walk away. “Hey, wait, where ya goin’?”

Kiyoomi ignored him in favour of opening his locker and producing a clear plastic bag from it. He came back to present it to Atsumu, gesturing at the towel on the floor. “For that. I know you’re disgusting enough to just throw that in with your belongings as it is. Pull your pants up already, you look ridiculous.”

Atsumu took the bag and shimmied back into his shorts, embarrassed. How was Kiyoomi so composed after that? He could still see the outline of his now half-hard cock through his clothes, which he adjusted slightly when he noticed Atsumu looking. “I’m fine.”

“Uh,” Atsumu started, still dazed. “I didn’t say anythin’.”

“I know, but I know what you’re thinking, and I’m fine,” Kiyoomi insisted sharply. “I can take care of myself.”

A leer crept onto Atsumu’s face. “Fancy lettin’ me watch?”

Ah, there was that pretty, ugly scowl again. Back in familiar territory. “Absolutely not.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Atsumu whined. “Ya never heard of ‘show me yours, I’ll show ya mine’?”

“Not happening. I’m going home,” Kiyoomi looped his bag over his shoulder and looked down at Atsumu, boneless and pouting childishly on the bench. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“What, that’s it? Not even a kiss goodnight? Ruthless, Omi-kun,” Atsumu half-joked.

The door handle creaked as Kiyoomi turned it with his hand covered by the sleeve of his jacket. He snorted. “In your dreams. Goodnight, Miya.”

With that, Atsumu was left alone. His mind raced with thoughts mostly in the same vein of _what the fuck just happened_ , but one in particular stood out and looped around for the rest of the night.

_‘Atsumu’. I really want to hear that again._

**Author's Note:**

> Although I posted sunshower before this one, this was my first attempt at writing for SakuAtsu and my first attempt at writing smut!! So thanks for reading, and if anyone has any constructive feedback for me I will send u lots of love
> 
> See y'all in h word jail i guess
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/vicari_us)


End file.
